PS I Love You
by MrsCumberbatch
Summary: Sherlock Holmes died of brain tumour. A year later, in his 36th birthday party, John Watson receives the first of many letters that will not only help him to get over his husband's death but also to find love again.
1. PS: Happy Birthday

**1st letter: Happy Birthday  
**

* * *

He was turning 36 soon. He was a middle aged man who had lost his husband not so long ago and he still couldn't accept the fact Sherlock Holmes was not coming back.

Never, ever again.

"It could be lovely!"

No, it couldn't. My husband has just died and you want me to celebrate my birthday? "I don't feel like it, Mrs Hudson."

"But what will I do?" The landlady said, frowning, already worried. "All the food I've ordered."

The food? "What?"

"Oh, John. I wanted it to be a surprise. I've invited some people -"

"Mrs Hudson..."

The old lady placed a warm hand on his shoulder and smiled. "Cheer up, John."

Yes.

You say so because your husband was sentenced to death. Mine died because of a brain tumour. A brain tumour. Tell me how that sounds. A man who was a genius died of a brain tumour.

I miss you so much, Sherlock.

* * *

_John knew it. John knew Sherlock had always known. The bastard knew it all along and never said a word about it._

_The selfish git._

_"It's terminal."_

_"Yes."_

_John frowned. "Are you even listening?"_

_"Yes."_

_He was too calm. Too calm. Too calm and it made John feel sick. How could he be so calm when he had just been told he had a brain tumour and that he was dying?_

_"You're dying."_

_"Yes, the doctor said so," The detective said, his hands folded over his lap. "You said we need to get milk."_

_They walked side by side to the shops. They got milk, tea, beans, bread, Sherlock's favourite cookies and John's favourite jam._

_"Strawberry?"_

_John remained silent._

_Sherlock chuckled. "You should try berries."_

_At home things got worse. Sherlock started working on his experiments as if nothing had happened. They had just returned from the doctor and they had just been told he was dying. And the bastard was working on his stupid ashes._

_"I'll need more petri dishes -"_

_"I don't want you to die."_

_Sherlock turned to his husband and stared at him, blankly. There were no words he could say to make John understand he was fine with it. Everyone dies. People die every day and now it was his turn. There was nothing wrong with that. And actually, the detective was glad. Happy. Tremendously happy to finally go because the headaches were worse and the pain was unbearable._

_But John was taking none of it._

_"I don't want to," he whispered. "But I have to."_

_"I don't want you to die," John repeated and heavy tears rolled down his eyes. "Please, don't leave me."_

_Sherlock curled the corner of his lips up just slightly. "The pain is unbearable."_

_"We could... I know there are pills -"_

_"John... you'll have to let me go."_

_Sherlock was happy the pain was going to end soon. But he was not happy to leave his husband._

_If only he could make him understand he was not everything John thought of him. If only John could understand he was merely a chapter of his life._

_And there were many more for John Watson._

* * *

"Happy birthday, John."

"Ta, Greg," John said, faking a little smile and accepting the wine the DI of the NSY had just given him. "We can open it later."

And then Molly, Mycroft, two mates from the army and Mrs Hudson were all sitting in the living room having tea and laughing at his stupid jokes.

John knew they only laughed because he was the 'birthday boy', as his mother used to say, and not because he was being funny. Because he wasn't even trying. One of his mates was talking to Molly and apparently they were exchanging their numbers.

_"Mike, can I borrow your phone? There's no signal in mine."_

_"And what happened to the landline?"_

_"I prefer to text."_

_"Sorry, other coat."_

_John cleared his throat. "Here, use mine."_

John chuckled when he remembered what Sherlock said._ "You were flirting with me. You mad, mad, mad man."_ Ha. Of course he was flirting with him. Who wouldn't? Sherlock was so handsome. Gorgeous. God, that man.

One of the many things John loved about Sherlock was how stupidly beautiful the man was. He looked good in anything he wore: tailored suits, jeans, his stupid pyjamas, short pants. Even nothing at all.

"Hey, mate," Greg sat next to him. "We went to the pub last friday. You didn't show up."

"I wasn't in the mood."

"Oh, come on." Greg nudged at him. "Anderson paid the drinks. Drank like 6 pints, just to piss him off."

John merely chuckled.

"You know, the guys miss you."

"Greg..."

"You need to go out."

"I go out."

The DI raised an eyebrow. "To the surgery and back here. You know you can always come to my office and have a cuppa."

A cuppa...

_"John? John? Are you mad at me?"_

_John closed his eyes and tried to conceive some sleep._

_"John? I did something, right? I did something bad, right? Should I know what it is?"_

_The doctor turned to the closed door, imagining his husband leaning on the door, probably going to his mind palace to know what exactly he had done._

_"Or is it something maybe you just think I did? No, no. I did it. I did it. It was a bad, bad thing I did, and I'm so sorry."_

_John knew he was sorry._

_But he so loved to hear his husband beg._

_"John, come on. John? You have to let me in. Are you going to make me sleep in the bathtub again?"_

_Ha. Ha, ha, ha._

_He couldn't stand it any more. John opened the door and let his husband in. He was angry because Sherlock had, again, used all the milk and all the tea for a stupid experiment._

_But he couldn't help it._

_And they made love like animals that night._

"Oh, the cake's here!"

Mrs Hudson opened the door and one of the boys from the shop downstairs placed a big cake on the table and handed John a white envelope with his name written on it.

"Happy birthday, doctor Watson."

"Thanks -"

Wait.

"John?" Greg asked leaning close to him. "John, mate, you OK?"

"What's this?"

Everyone stared at him, perplexed.

John held the envelope for everyone to see it. But no one knew what he was talking about.

It was Sherlock's handwriting.

"What?"

"It's..." John gasped and tore the envelope open. "It's... God."

_Dear John,_

_Happy birthday. I don't know where you are, but I presume Mrs Hudson insisted you had a party. Just don't let Molly near my pictures or she'll cry. And we don't want that, do we? Remember when she cried after that guy who stood her up? I don't need crying women in your birthday party. It's your birthday.  
_

_I just hope that my letter has found you safe and healthy. You whispered to me not long ago that you couldn't go on alone. You can, John. You are strong and brave and you can get through this. We shared some beautiful times together. You made my life better. You're the man of my life, John.  
_

_I have no regrets. Well, maybe I regret not convincing you of buying the berries jam, but I know you prefer strawberry._

_I'm a chapter in your life, John. And there will be many more. Remember our wonderful memories, but please don't be afraid to make some more.  
_

_Thank you for doing me the honour of being my husband. For everything, I am eternally grateful. Especially your patience. And your tea. No one has ever made me tea like you._

_Whenever you need me, know that I am with you._

_Love you,_  
_Your husband and best friend,_  
_SH_

_PS. I promised a list, so here it is. The following envelopes must be opened exactly when labeled and must be obeyed. And remember, I'm looking out for you, so I will know…_


	2. PS: Something for You Outside

**2nd letter: Something for You Outside  
**

* * *

A list. Yeah, he remembered that. He was doing the shopping when Mrs Hudson called and said Sherlock was on an ambulance on his way to hospital. An attack they said, a mild one but nothing stopped John from leaving the goods on the basket and running - yes, running to hospital and check Sherlock was fine.

_"Ah, John, there you are. Got a pen?"_

_A pen? "What happened?"_

_"Oh, nothing," Sherlock waved his hand dismissively and yawned. "I need a pen."_

_"You passed out?"_

_The detective rolled his eyes. "John, I need a pen -"_

_"Can you stop asking for a fucking pen?" John bellowed, angrily. "Tell me what happened!"_

_This was not the first time it happened. He had passed out countless times before. The good thing was that there was no furniture and nothing around otherwise Sherlock knew he would have got his neck broken or something of the sort. John was overdoing it, according to Sherlock. _

_"I passed out and Mrs Hudson found me."_

_John sat next to him on his bed. "Are you OK?" he pressed his thumbs to the detective's forehead. "How many fingers can you see?"_

_"I'm fine. Four fingers. Now give me a pen."_

_"A pen?"_

_"Yes. I need to write something."_

_"Sherlock -"_

_"It's not a will. That has already been taken care of. I need to write a list," Sherlock said calmly. "Now go and get me a pen."_

John looked at the letter for the four hundredth time that night and wondered when is that Sherlock wrote him that letter... He said there will be more but... when? Why?

* * *

He opened the fridge and wished, again, as he had done since Sherlock's death that he could find a human head, toes, fingers, nails, an arm, an ear... anything. John once even thought of visiting Molly and asking her for one of those, a toe, a finger maybe and put it on another of his plastic containers and pretend Sherlock was still around.

The same happened with the milk and the tea. Sherlock would always use his tea and milk for stupid experiments. Then they would fight. Sherlock would sleep in the sofa. And then, just after midnight, John would feel the door of their room being opened, Sherlock's long feet taking soft steps and finally, his long arms on his body and his stupidly soft lips on his neck.

_"Forgive me."_

_John smiled inwardly. "It was my favourite tea, Sherlock."_

_"I'm sorry, John," Sherlock whispered against his ear. "Please forgive me."_

_"I'll have to think about it."_

_The detective rolled his eyes. "Oh, shut up. Come on, let's have make up sex."_

_"You..." Now everything fell into its place. "You used my tea to make me angry so we'd fight and have make up sex?"_

_"It's the best sex," Sherlock shrugged._

John chuckled at that memory. They made love like animals and they even felt Mrs Hudson hitting her ceiling with her broomstick and the following morning she asked them to be a bit more quiet next time.

He opened the cupboards and found nothing. Not a single tea leave.

* * *

Three months after his 36th birthday, John received the first of the many letters Sherlock had promised him.

"Ah, John, mate," Greg welcomed the doctor and patted his back.

One of the many officers present handed John a pint and soon the music of the pub, the football match on telly and the fans' screaming made John feel out of place.

"Cheer up, John."

"Ta, Greg," John sighed.

"So... how's life going?"

"The job's fine. Helped Mrs Hudson with her boiler, her basement... I'm considering taking knitting lessons with her."

Greg laughed. "You need to go out more often, mate."

John remained silent.

"John... I've been talking to some people and... you know, my superior really likes you."

"Who? The fat guy I broke his nose for calling Sherlock a weirdo?"

Greg nodded. "You and Sherlock caught us a lot of criminals and murderers."

"Sherlock, not me."

"Don't say that, mate," Greg handed the doctor another pint. "Sherlock did the deducing thing, but you had the gun."

"What is this all about, Greg?"

"You could work with me. Like Sherlock -"

"No."

"John -"

The doctor shook his head. "No. I'm not... I can't do it again."

"Listen, all you'll have to do is to take some exams, maybe a few courses but in a month or two you could quit that boring job you're always complaining about and work with us. You like this, don't say you don't."

Of course he liked it. The thrill, the adrenaline, the chasing, running from one place to another, the investigation... Sherlock had made him fall in love with adrenaline. Both liked it. Adrenaline was what made them both randy after a case. God, they had loved each other so much after a case.

"I can't."

"Why? There's nothing stopping you -"

"Don't you understand?" John asked, his voice filled with sadness. "I can't. I miss him... I miss him too much, Greg. I can't stand his absence any more. I... I miss the body parts on he fridge. I want to wear his clothes but the fucking bastard was so thin. They don't fit me."

Greg shoot his friend a pitiful look. "You'll have to lose weight then."

John chuckled. "Fuck you."

"Just... promise me you'll think about it, okay?"

"I will. But my answer is no. I can't even drive a car."

"You can always learn."

"Fuck you."

"Another one for Doctor Watson!"

Fuck. He was so drunk that night. John chuckled when he almost fell to the floor after opening the door of the flat. He was honouring the Watson name after all. His sister was a drinker, his father had been a drinker, his grandfather had also been a drinker and apparently the father of his grandfather, and the father of the father of his grandfather and so on... it was in the family. He avoided it. He liked going to pubs and having a pint or two, but he never drank as much as his sister Harry or his father and the rest of his family.

Sherlock once said that if they were ever having a child, they would have to adopt because he was not giving his sperm nor he was allowing John to give his.

_"What?"_

_"You heard me, John. We have each our issues. I'm a sociopath and most believe I've got Asperger syndrome. I do believe so too," Sherlock continued tipping on his computer. "My history with drugs and my smoking habits have surely affected my sperm count. And your family history with alcoholism doesn't give us many options."_

_"You don't have Asperger syndrome."_

_Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "I thought you'd be upset."_

_"Why would I be upset?"_

_"Because I suggested your sperm isn't... isn't that one of those things that hurt a man's pride?"_

_John smiled. "You're right. I'm lucky enough I don't like beer like my ancestors."_

_"We could always adopt. I could get you a catalogue to choose from and Mycroft can do the paperwork."_

_"I'd never choose a child from a catalogue, Sherlock," John said, stroking his husband's hand. "And you don't like children."_

_Sherlock leaned close to John. "But you do."_

_"We're fine this way, just you and me."_

John fell on his bed, on Sherlock's side, and closed his eyes.

* * *

John swore on every single member of his family and even Sherlock's grave that he was not going to drink ever, ever, ever again.

The hangover was a bitch.

Opening his box with medicines and pills, John found a white envelope.

And Sherlock's handwriting.

_Dear John,_

_You once said that one of the many things you wished you could learn to was driving.  
_

_I'm still angry at you for making me drive all around Baskerville. _

_Now go out. There's something for you outside._

_SH_

_PS: I love you._

John found a key and a schedule for driving lessons already paid in the envelope. He run downstairs and opened the front door.

There was a and Land Rover Defender 110 Station Wagon. The very same one they had rented in Baskerville when they investigated a mysterious hound.


	3. PS: Throw Everything Away

**3rd letter: Throw Everything Away  
**

* * *

_"What the fuck's this?"_

_"Your Christmas present. Really, John," Sherlock said, a huge grin on his face. "you said you needed it."_

_John looked at the bright red pants his husband had given him for Christmas. "I said I needed underwear. Not... this."_

_"What's wrong with it?"_

_"What's wrong with it?" John repeated, angrily. "It's two sizes small! And look at the colour!"_

_Sherlock chuckled. "Try them on."_

_"I'm not -"_

_"I said," the detective kissed his husband softly. "Try them on."_

* * *

"This is great. Now you can definitely join the force."

"Shut up."

"That Land Rover, my God, John," Greg said, sipping more of Mrs Hudson's tea. "You lucky bastard. I wish my wife would give me one of those."

John smiled shyly. "I don't know how he did it."

"Who cares how he did it? He fucking got you a Land Rover. And now you can drive. No more excuses for you."

"_I_ care how he did it," John said, not drinking his landlady's tea but instead looking at the car parked downstairs. "You know how he was in his last days. He could barely open his eyes. How he wrote those letters?"

It was true that Sherlock could barely open his eyes during his last days. He could hardly stand any lights and he always said his head was going to explode. As the detective refused to stay in hospital he decided to spend his last days at Baker Street.

John looked at every corner within Baker Street for more letters. He looked at every place, behind every piece of furniture, inside every drawer and even at Mrs Hudson's flat.

Nothing.

This time the doctor knew Sherlock was bloody dead. He had seen him dying and this time he didn't fake it.

Later Mrs Hudson told DI Lestrade she hated those letters and wished John stopped receiving them.

"But why?"

"They are keeping him tied to the past," Mrs Hudson argued feeling a deep pain within her heart. "What John needs is to move on."

"Well, I think he _is_ moving on. He goes out more often. Took driving lessons and is considering changing jobs," Greg smiled. "Whatever Sherlock planned... I think it's good."

* * *

_"Jesus fucking Christ!"_

_"John -"_

_"You almost got yourself killed!"_

_"But I'm fine now!"_

_John started to slam tea cups and saucers onto the table. Sherlock knew every time John slammed things onto the table it meant he was angry. _

_Better change the tactics then. "John -"_

_"You were going to do it again, weren't you?"_

_Faking a suicide? No way. "Of course not -"_

_"Then tell me why you bloody let him stab you!"_

_"I had to solve the case!"_

_John slammed the kettle against the counter. "All of this for a sodding case! And what about your life?"_

_"Please," Sherlock said sarcastically. "Did you see him? He could hardly hold a knife properly and -"_

_"You don't understand, do you?"_

_Now things were getting out of their hands. "No."_

_"Sod this."_

_"I don't understand, tell me!"_

_"Fuck you, Sherlock!"_

_John started walking to their room when Sherlock threw himself onto the sofa. "Fuck you, John!"_

_John slammed the door shut. _

_And one minute later both went to the kitchen again._

_"I'm sorry, John."_

_John clenched his teeth. "You could have died."_

_"I know. I'm sorry."_

_"I don't want to lose you."_

_Sherlock looked at the floor. "I know. I'm sorry."_

_"You have to be more careful, love."_

_"I know. I'm sorry."_

_"Can you bloody stop it with 'I know I'm sorry'!" John bellowed, exasperated._

_Sherlock walked towards the doctor and pressed him against the counter. "I'm sorry, John. Can we make love now? Seeing you like this," the detective pressed a not-so-innocent kiss to John's lips. "I want you. Do you want me?"_

_"Oh, God, yes!"_

* * *

John waited.

And thank God he was a patient man. He waited and waited and for one month and almost three weeks he didn't receive any letters. Just bills.

"Congratulations Doctor Watson," Greg said raising his pint to the air. "Welcome to the New Scotland Yard."

"Ta, Greg," John said with a tiny smile. "Don't expect me to wear any uniforms. Nor will I call you _sir_."

Greg patted John's back. "Assistant to Detective Inspector. Not that bad, uh?"

"Got top marks. I should have been assigned to DI."

"Another drink?"

"Nah, had to get going."

"Oh, don't be so boring."

"Can't drink, remember?" John said, taking the keys of his cars off his pocket and heading to the door. "You go home and stop complaining your wife doesn't want to sleep with you."

John couldn't stop thinking how life can change. He had always conceived of his life with Sherlock, together. Tonight he knew they would have stayed at home watching crap telly or maybe having sex or maybe eating Chinese take away while he tried to book themselves a holiday and Sherlock complained about leaving London.

He was tired. He had studied and worked very hard for the last weeks and had passed all the exams. He was fit. He probed to have a good aim and know about ethics and criminals.

When he got home he threw himself onto the big bed and tossed only to find Sherlock's blue scarf sitting on his old beside table.

God knows he had to do something about it. It had been long months, almost half a year and Sherlock's clothes were still inside their wardrobe, occupying most of it. All his trousers, his shirts, his jackets, his coat, his gloves and his shoes. Everything was the bathroom John could still find Sherlock's old shampoo, his razor, his soap, his perfume, his aftershave and even his moisturiser.

John chuckled because he had always considered his husband the most beautiful, handsome man he had ever seen. Sherlock looked in everything he wore, tailored suits, his old pyjamas, underwear, nothing at all.

John merely kicked his shoes off and closed his eyes.

He hoped he could see his husbands in his dreams.

_"These jumpers are hideous. I swear I'm burning them all one of these days."_

_John held back a smile. "Do they make me look hideous too?"_

_"They make you look like an idiot."_

_"Am I an idiot?"_

_Sherlock kissed him softly and slid a hand under his tee. Both were in bed, it was a rainy Sunday and neither of them felt like getting up. Not even to get breakfast or go to loo._

_"Yes. Though you're my favourite idiot. The only one I love."_

_John smiled. "That's better."_

When he woke up, John looked to the bedside table. Sherlock's blue scarf was still there.

He loved that dream. Actually, John loved all of those dreams because Sherlock was in all of them. All his dreams reminded him of their moments together: their wedding, their first time together, their first kiss, the first time they held hands, when Sherlock got the flu and he had to take care of him, when for his birthday Sherlock tried to bake a cake but almost burned the kitchen.

Maybe Sherlock was right.

Maybe it was time for a change.

When John opened his wardrobe, he faced more than twenty designer suits. All tailored. All fixed to fit his husband's slender body.

"You bloody narcissist," John muttered to himself. "If you hadn't been so thin all your sodding designer clothes would fit me. I'm changing jobs and I don't have too much money... let's see if something here fits me."

And then, he spotted an envelope popping from one of Sherlock's favourite's jacket pockets.

The dark one he always used with what he liked to call 'the purple shirt of sex'.

_Dear John,_

___I know you love me. You don't need my belongings to remember me, you don't need to keep them as proof that I existed or still exist in your mind. _

___Don't try to wear my clothes because they won't fit you. And you don't need them to feel me around you. I'm always with you, wrapping my arms around your plumpy stomach. I love your body, did I tell you that?_

_Throw everything away and get yourself new clothes. _

_Visit my tailor. _

_Everything you need is on me._

_SH_

_PS: I love you._


	4. Remember

_"I need a case."_

_"What you need is to rest."_

_"But I'm tired of being here," Sherlock said, looking at himself wrapped with a thick duvet around his form, several bottles of pills on the table next to the sofa where he was sitting on, tea, biscuits and his violin far from his reach. "I want to play my violin."_

_John returned from the kitchen with more tea. He sat next to his husband and pressed a soft kiss to that curly head he loved so much. "Remember what the doctor said about loud noises?"_

_"I could play softly."_

_"You can't, love."_

_There were many things Sherlock couldn't do. He couldn't read, he could go out, he couldn't walk much before feeling himself sick, he couldn't drink wine with John as they always did when having dinner._

_Sherlock hated the fact he couldn't play his violin._

_He buried his face on the doctor's lap and cried, silently. John allowed himself to cry too, silently, hoping Sherlock wouldn't notice but he knew beforehand he always did. He let a hand caress his husband's dark curls softly and massaged his scalp in a futile attempt the pain would go away just for a moment._

_"Sherlock..."_

_"I'm scared, John."_

_"Don't be, darling," John mumbled, the tears already rolling down his face, his eyes red, his lips swollen and his voice was nothing but a mere whisper. "I'm here with you."_

When diagnosed Sherlock was calm. He barely talked about his illness unless it was needed, such as visits to the doctor, John asking him if he was okay, if he was in pain.

Everyone cried.

But him.

John cried, and well, it was expected because John was his husband and best friend. They had been together for less than three years and married just a couple of months before Sherlock was diagnosed. Sometimes John joked and said he should have been less stupid and proposed before. But John cried when he thought Sherlock wasn't watching but the thing is Sherlock was always watching and he could always tell when his husband had been crying. John cried at night, when it was late, when Sherlock was sleeping with his back to him, or that is what John thought. The truth is that Sherlock never slept when John cried and remained silent, listening to John's tears and his own sadness.

It hurt him, being there, not being able to do a thing. Because he couldn't do a thing, could he? He was dying and he had already accepted it but the one not really giving up was John.

Mrs Hudson cried too. And she treated him as if he was a very little boy who deserved to be helped with everything. He had a tumour somewhere within his brain and he was dying. He was a not a damsel in distress nor a man who had just lost a leg or an arm.

Mummy and daddy cried and cried and Sherlock hated it. He had John to cry for him. But thank God they were in the country so he couldn't see them crying every day. Mummy made John promise he was going to take good care of him and John did so with his best soldier face. Now mummy and daddy called every day and sometimes Sherlock wished he was already dead.

The only one who accepted the idea was Mycroft.

When Sherlock asked Mycroft he could move some strings for him and get things done, among his will and a few papers too so John wouldn't get into trouble when he died, Mycroft could no longer ask him to solve little cases.

_"You'll be the only child you always wished you were. Lots of Christmas presents, and all for you."_

_Mycroft smiled a bit. "I hate Christmas."_

_"I know."_

_"I was seven when I asked for a dog. Dad said I'd have to wait a bit for my present and on the sixth of January you were born," Mycroft said, his eyes not on his brother but on his umbrella. "It was raining."_

_Sherlock chuckled. "The day I die the sky will fall over London."_

_"I will have to check that with the weather forecast."_

_"I need you to do something for me."_

_"My accountant and lawyer are currently working on your will."_

_"You have connections within the post office."_

_Mycroft assented. "Of course."_

_Sherlock handed his brother a bunch of letters. All of them were addressed to John and all of them had an specific date written on them. Mycroft looked at them carefully and immediately knew everything._

_"It seems you took your time to prepare everything."_

_"Just make yourself sure John gets every single one of them in time."_

_Mycroft took the envelopes and headed to the door. "I will, brother."_

_"Oh, and Mycroft?"_

_The politician turned to face his brother._

_Sherlock looked at him and managed a tiny smile. "Thank you."_

* * *

_"I don't understand, John. People die everyday."_

_John remained silent._

_"Right now around one hundred people are either being killed or -"_

_"Husbands don't die every day."_

_"Of course they do."_

_"Not mine."_

_Sherlock looked up at John as soon as he felt the man's breathing becoming erratic. John's chest was dangerously rising and falling and Sherlock had already predicted tears soon._

_Yes, John was crying again._

_"You never cry after sex."_

_John shook his head. "You never behave like a dick after sex."_

_"John... I'm dying. I... I can't do anything about it and don't think I like this because I don't," Sherlock kissed him softly. "We've been together for two years, five months, three days, twelve hours, sixteen minutes and I don't know how many seconds and there are still many things I want us to do, like getting that stupid dog you like," John smiled at that. "Or going to the beach as I promised you once," John looked into his eyes and Sherlock cupped his face. "I wish I could give you all the children you want."_

_John blinked and heavy tears rolled down his pale face. Sherlock kissed all of them before John could have the courage to say the words he needed Sherlock to hear._

_"I'd sell everything I own. I'd give my soul to the demon itself and for god's sake, I'd fucking die for you, Sherlock," John whispered. "I wish I could stop this."_

_"No one can."_

_John looked away. "I'd give everything up if it means you'll stay with me forever."_

_The detective buried his face into the doctor's chest and pressed soft kisses to John's sensitive skin. "I'll always be with you. Always."_

_They settled into comfortable silence for long minutes. Sherlock remained his position close to John, his head resting over his chest where he could feel John's lungs and his heart beating. John let his fingers feel Sherlock's soft curls._

_Sometimes John wondered what his life was going to be like without Sherlock._

_It wasn't fair. Sometimes John could no longer picture his life without him._

_And sometimes he asked himself what his life was like without Sherlock in it._

_"You remember what you told me before we made love for the first time?"_

_Sherlock chuckled. "Yes."_

_'Fuck my brains out.'_

_John laughed._

_"Fucking my brains out will cure me?"_

_John smiled. Sherlock was the only person on Earth to be able to joke about his own illness and make it look incredibly sexy all at the same time._

_"Don't know," John said to him softly. "Want to try?"_

_"If you think you can manage."_

_Sherlock was on his back. John could feel those long, ridiculously long legs wrapped around his waist and the man underneath him begging him to take him harder._

_"Sherlock, I love you."_

_"I love you too, John."_

John never thought that two weeks later Sherlock Holmes would be dead.


	5. PS: Happy Holidays

**4th letter: Happy Holidays**

* * *

"It's a drugs ring we're dealing with," Greg added and instructed the policemen to follow John and do as he said. "Follow him and do not shoot. We need him alive."

John took his gun and got into the building.

He started working with Greg in the Criminal Division of the New Scotland Yard three months ago and their very first case together involved a drugs ring which had prostitution, drugs, interstate theft, illegal gambling, pedophilia and apparently kidnapping groups as their main activities.

Lots of undercover work, dealing with women who had been taken for prostitution, drug addicts and even homeless children and now they were certain they were about to arrest the head of the organization, a Latin man who called himself Rodriguez.

Every time he had to deal with homeless children that had been abused John really wished he had never joined the force. As a doctor he was pretty much used to tears, crying children and women and even during his residencies he could remember discovering a child had been abused.

But many years had passed since then.

For three months they only focused on this case and every day they got no results at all John and Greg wished Sherlock was alive so he could help them. Both men knew that with the detective's help they would have solved the case, lock Rodriguez forever and save thousands of kids and women involved.

"Spread out and do not shoot. If you find civilians, try and take them out," John instructed the policemen and got in.

* * *

"Julio Rodriguez, fifty years old," Greg announced to the press proudly. "Has been arrested with nine of the ten members of the group. Henry Thompson was found safe and taken to hospital following the procedure."

John followed the press conference standing right behind the journalist. Everyone was quite excited and Greg's face and Rodriguez's name were printed in every single newspaper in the country.

"You should be there, you know."

John turned to Sally. "I like it here. Someone has to keep the press calm."

To his surprise, Sally placed a slender hand to his shoulder and smiled at him. "Well done, Doctor Watson."

Sally never liked him. Well, Sally never liked Sherlock and therefore she never liked him. When John was announced as second just after Greg she went furious. She said John couldn't be on the force as he was a civilian who happened to had been in the army and was married to a consulting detective. Something happened and that something was working together every day. Anderson wasn't as stupid as Sherlock always said he was. He could have strange ideas when he had to think of a cause of death when facing a crime scene, but he was a good man after all. And Sally... John was still sure something had happened between her and Sherlock but never asked nor he felt the need of knowing.

"Thank you, Sargent. You were there too."

"You two look like thunder. You should go on holidays."

John managed a tiny smile. "I just started three months ago."

"You could always ask for a weekend."

* * *

Many things changed since he joined the force. He worked all day long but he liked it. When he returned home John barely had the time to think of Sherlock when he had a shower and got into bed. When the detective died John could barely go to bed and not cry thinking that a few months ago Sherlock was sleeping next to him every night.

Since he died John kept on sleeping on his side of the bed, keeping Sherlock's untouchable, as if that way he would keep the shape Sherlock's body left the last night he slept next to him on their bed. But now John was so tired he didn't mind which side he was sleeping on.

The same happened with the detective's clothes. John placed them all in boxes and gave them to charity. He smiled every time he saw one of Sherlock's homeless network walking around the city wearing the detective's shirts, trousers or even his shoes. The only thing John couldn't get rid of was the blue scarf. He had given it to Sherlock on their first Christmas together as a couple. Later Sherlock tied to the bed with that same scarf. But now days were warmer and John kept it safe next to the bed.

Now John barely had the time to stop and look at the pictures of Sherlock all around the flat. He stopped visiting the grave too and despite it hurt him, he knew it was for the best.

"What's up, mate?" Greg asked, sitting next to John on a little cafe before going to the office.

John placed the three letters he had received so far. "Look at them."

"You sure?"

"Yeah."

Greg looked at the envelopes, opened the letters, read them, placed them back into their respective envelopes and them handed them back to their owner.

"What do you see?"

"They're just letters."

John sipped more of his coffee. "Look at them closely, Greg."

"He's dead."

"I know he is. I saw him dying, remember?"

Greg sighed. "John, mate, you were doing great -"

"I know," John said, taking the first envelope and re-reading the letter for the millionth time. "I know I have to move on... I... I stopped visiting his grave and I threw all his clothes away and his shampoo, his bloody conditioner and even his toothbrush. There's nothing he owned in the flat."

Greg looked at him.

"Well, the skull... his scarf and well, you know, the violin."

"What is it, John?"

"I think he's trying to tell me something," John said and pointed at the letters all displayed over the table. "Look at the envelopes - they are all the same. The stamps and the -"

"John -"

"No, Greg, look here. Look at his handwriting. It's his handwriting but it's neat. You know Sherlock's handwriting."

Greg managed a tiny smile. "Yeah."

"Sherlock said there is a list. He bought me a fucking cake for my birthday, a car, even paid his tailor for my clothes!"

"And they suit you fine."

John sighed. "I don't get it. It's like... I feel he's trying to tell me something."

"What d'you think it is?"

"I don't know."

"You should have that on a T-shirt," Greg joked. "Maybe he's just trying to... you know... tell you to move on."

"Hmm."

Greg stood up and paid for their coffees. "Now, come on, let's go to work."

* * *

"Oh, John, dear, look at you!"

John sat on his chair and closed his eyes. "'m fine."

The landlady opened the fridge and found it empty. She repeated the process but the cupboards were also empty and there was nothing but stale bread. "You young man! You have nothing to eat! I'll go downstairs and prepare something for dinner. A nice soup, that's what you need."

"Mrs Hudson... stop right there."

Mrs Hudson stopped by the door.

"You got the mail today."

"Yes."

John went through the bunch of envelopes piled over his desk. Gas bill, bills, more bills, bills.

A letter.

Sherlock's handwriting.

"I wonder how he does it," John smiled.

Mrs Hudson looked away. "He shouldn't do this, dear... however he does it. They are not good for you."

The landlady went downstairs to prepare some food and left the doctor alone to read the letter. John liked them actually. He knew his landlady didn't like them and John had heard Greg saying she thinks Sherlock's letters are keeping him tied to the past.

But John was sure Sherlock left those letter for a purpose.

And John liked to think he had to discover it.

_Dear John,_

_I know you'd always wanted holidays and we never went to the beach as I promised we would. _

_I don't forget my promises, John._

_Pack your things and drive to Baskerville. There you'll find a nice little place to stay, a small beach and lots of things to do. It could be dangerous. _

_Take Mrs Hudson and Greg with you. You never know when you need an old lady who knows about drugs and a Detective Inspector with a badge and a gun. _

_It is time you live your own adventures and meet new people. _

_I miss you, John. _

_Happy holidays._

_Love,_

_SH_

_PS: I love you._

John smiled and looked at the envelope. There was a small paper with an address written on it. The doctor couldn't stop smiling. He really couldn't help it.

He bit his lip and looked at his car parked outside on the street.

Ten minutes later he put a bag into his car and knocked at Mrs Hudson's door.

"John?" She frowned when she looked at him, wearing a coat and smiling at her happily.

"Mrs Hudson, forget all about the soup. Go and pack your things. Have you got a swimming costume?"

"What?"

John smiled. "We're going on holidays."

Half an hour later John stopped at Greg's flat. He knew his wife was away working in America so it didn't take him much time and finally an hour after reading the letter John was happily driving to Baskerville with Greg sitting next to him, saying the Chief Superintendent was going to kill them and Mrs Hudson sitting behind them, saying everything was going to be okay and that she hoped it was sunny enough to go to the beach.


	6. PS: Adventures

**5th letter: Adventures**

* * *

"My, what a lovely place!"

"Indeed," Greg agreed with Mrs Hudson.

John took the bags out of the car and admired the house like his landlady and his friend Greg. They were standing in front of a nice little house, a cottage with lovely flowers outside, old bricks and two front windows.

"He was very thoughtful, Sherlock," Greg said cheerily, patting John's back and taking his and Mrs Hudson's luggage. "Let's get in. I'm starving."

The house was beautiful. John hadn't said a word so far and he merely took a tour all around it with his landlady while Greg inspected the kitchen looking for food.

There were three bedrooms, two bathrooms, one living room, a kitchen, a little library and a very wide garden.

In the room he decided was going to be his, John found an envelope over the bed.

Sherlock's handwriting.

_Dear John,_

_Do you like the house? I hope the caretaker has fixed the house properly for you and your two companions. Has Mrs Hudson taken her herbal shooters? Is Lestrade already looking for bottles of beer in the cupboards?_

_Enjoy your holidays, John. You highly deserve them. __Though I cannot really understand how you can enjoy them with an old lady who tells everyone stories of when she was the wife of a cartel boss and a Detective Inspector who cannot even solve the case of his wife and her assistant. Will you tell Lestrade for me?_

_Go to the nearest pub. A round is on me._

_Live your own adventures, John._

_Love, _

_SH_

_PS: I love you._

John smiled when finished reading the letter. He looked for his wallet and realised he still had a picture of Sherlock inside.

* * *

"Cheers!"

John sipped more of his beer and smiled when his landlady patted his now tanned arm. They had been at the beach in the afternoon and John had got a sun tan which, according to everyone, made him look younger.

Greg played football with some kids while John and Mrs Hudson sat on the sand, admiring the nice view, the sea, the people walking around, all in comfortable silence.

"We never had a honeymoon," John said half smiling.

"What happened?"

"Well, he didn't like people you know," John said, his eyes on his beer. "He wasn't very fond of crowded places and the idea of getting a sun tan horrified him."

Mrs Hudson giggled. "That young man."

"Everyone on the floor, _NOW_!"

Someone pulled a gun and shot at the roof.

People started screaming and John and Greg looked at each other.

"Can we have just _one_ day off, please?" Greg moaned as he took his gun out.

John managed a tight smile. "Mrs Hudson, don't worry. It'll take a couple of minutes."

Ten minutes later the two thieves were on the floor, handcuffed, when the local police arrived. Greg and John managed to catch the thieves and no one was hurt at the end of the night.

* * *

"I thought you quitted."

Greg sipped more of his Stella and smiled bitterly. "Yes, well, cigarettes are difficult to get rid of, you know."

"Something's wrong, Greg," John said sitting across the Detective Inspector. "I don't know what it is."

"What do you mean, mate?"

"It's just..." John trailed off, suddenly feeling completely out of his depth. "Why this? Why this house? Why Baskerville?"

"What is it, John?"

"Why would Sherlock choose this place?" John asked.

Greg shrugged. "It's nice. And you've been here before, remember about that hound?"

"Yeah but... Everything Sherlock did so far had a purpose. He got me a car, paid my driving lessons and paid his tailor for the clothes I needed for the job and..." John frowned. "It's like he knew what was going to happen."

"Maybe he knew."

"How?"

"Well, Sherlock knew everyone's life story, remember?" Greg asked, stretching his legs. "Maybe he could also tell everyone's future."

John shook his head. "_Greg_."

"It's an option! Are you sure he couldn't, you know, predict the future?"

"For God's sake, Greg."

"And what about this, John? What about these holidays?" Greg asked with a tiny smile. "What purpose as you said, or reasons Sherlock had to send you here?"

John sighed and rubbed his tired eyes. "I don't know. That's what worries me."

"You have nothing to be worried about, mate. You've got your landlady and your best mate here with you. Nothing wrong is gonna happen."

They sat and drank beer in comfortable silence, admiring the view of the garden under the moonlight when Greg laughed.

"What?"

"What if..." Greg giggled. "What if you meet someone?"

John glared at him. "Not in the mood, Greg."

"Seriously, John. What if you meet someone here?"

"You really think Sherlock hired someone to date me?" John asked sarcastically. "_Please_. He was unbelievably jealous. He would have never done such thing."

Greg rolled his eyes. "Forget it."

John Watson was not aware he was going to meet someone who was going to change his life forever.

After all, that's why Sherlock had planned this.

John had to get over him. John had to move on.

John had to forget him.


	7. PS: Move On

**6th letter: Move on  
**

* * *

The following morning John woke up early. The sky was not blue yet, it was a mixture between pink and orange. He could tell it was going to be a good day, sunny, warm. Maybe they could go to the beach again or take a look at that old and nice inn he had stayed in with Sherlock years ago.

John wondered if the hound thing was still attracting the tourists.

The doctor took a bike and rode all around the little house, between the tall, old trees and hills. He quite liked being there, in the country.

_"I want us to move to the country."_

_"Now?"_

_"Not now, obviously," Sherlock whispered and let John play with his curls. "When I retire. We could, um, buy a little cottage. Keep bees."_

_John smiled lazily. "Bees, huh?"_

_"I like them."_

_"I know, my little bee."_

_John felt Sherlock rolling his eyes. "John."_

_"We didn't have a honeymoon," John reminded Sherlock as he bent down and pressed a kiss to his husband's lips. "We could go to the country, see if we like it."_

_"Hmm."_

John smiled a bit at that memory. The following day he found Sherlock unconscious in their bed and called an ambulance when he wouldn't wake up.

That was the day they were told Sherlock had a tumour, a brain tumour, and that there was nothing that could be done.

He was so deep into his own thoughts that John didn't see a woman crossing the road. He almost hit her with his bike, but luckily he managed to stop just before it happened.

"I'm sorry!"

John didn't look at her at first. He merely helped her with her shopping bags. She was carrying milk, fruits and biscuits. "No, please... I was distracted," John said as he handed her the shopping bags. "I didn't see you -"

The woman smiled shyly.

She was the most beautiful woman John had ever seen.

"I'm sorry," She repeated, taking the bags off John's hands. "I should've looked both ways before crossing the road."

"I..."

The woman looked at him and smiled. "Are you OK?"

"Me? Yes, sorry, yes."

"My bag."

"What?"

The woman smiled. "You have my bag."

John looked down and realised he was still carrying her shopping bag. "Sorry. Um... I can walk you home."

"I'm fine, really."

"I almost hit you with my bike. It's the last thing I can do."

The woman smiled. "You won't accept a no, will you?"

John smiled. "No."

"Are you a tourist?"

"I've been here a few years ago," John said, walking next to the woman. "Just staying for the weekend."

"Staying here with your girlfriend?"

"No, no. Actually, I'm staying here with my landlady and a friend. Just a little break, you know."

The woman smiled. "Oh."

The walked in awkward silence for a minute or two when they spotted a nice little house. "Well, this is it. Thank you."

"I'm sorry."

"It's all right."

"Um, I didn't ask your name," John said, giving her her shopping bags. "I'm John."

The blonde woman shook his hand happily. "I'm Mary."

Without even thinking about it, John asked her if she wanted to have dinner with him at the Cross Keys pub.

"Yes." Mary replied.

* * *

It wasn't until he told Greg all bout it when John realised he had made a mistake.

"You need to go out."

"But not with her!" John said. "I... I don't even know why I asked her."

Greg grinned. "Because you liked her."

"I don't know a thing about her."

"You know her name?"

"Mary," John said, sipping more hot tea Mrs Hudson had prepared. "Mary Morstan."

Greg nodded. "Mary. _Mary Watson_. Sounds good."

"Fuck you. I'm not bloody marrying her."

"We're leaving tomorrow. Go out, have dinner, drink wine and have a good time," Greg told him. "John, if this doesn't happen now, it will once we're in London."

John glared at him. "What d'you mean?"

"You have to move on, John. It's gonna be a year soon."

John thought about it. He knew he had to move on. He knew he could not cry Sherlock forever. That's not what Sherlock would want him to do. That's what Sherlock told him exactly before dying.

_"Move on. You have to promise you'll move on."_

_"I can't -"_

_"You can," Sherlock said softly. "Find someone, marry him or her and have children. Get a dog, a nice house and a car."_

_John smiled tightly. "I can't drive."_

_"It can be solved," Sherlock said before kissing him. "Everything can be solved but death."_

_"Don't leave me."_

_"I'm just a chapter in your life. There will be many more for John Watson."_

"I don't know what to do." John told Greg as the time to go to the pub for dinner approached.

* * *

When he arrived, he was greeted by the owner. The very same one who greeted the clients when he and Sherlock visited years ago.

"Doctor Watson!"

John was already sitting in a nice table when the man came with a menu.

And something else.

"Shall I bring you a candle?" The man asked happily. "It's more romantic."

John sighed. "Yes."

"Doctor Watson, this is for you."

Another letter.

Sherlock's handwriting.

_Dear John,_

_Please, do not ask for fish and chips. These types of dinners require food to be excellent. I personally recommend you beef Wellington with asparagus. The wine, as the dinner, is an important element. Here Gary has a few bottles of the 2000 Saint-Emilion, your favourite. _

_For dessert I suggest you to try the apple pie Gary himself prepares. _

___It's on me._

_Have a great night._

_SH_

_PS: I love you._

How could he stay there when he had just read that?

"Hello." Mary said, sitting across him.

John breathed. "Hello."

"Well... have you ordered?"

"Yes," John admitted. "Beef Wellington with asparagus."

Mary smiled. "My favourite.

It turned out Mary was a teacher at the local school. She liked children, dogs, sunny days, tea with milk and lots of sugar and dancing.

"What about you?" Mary asked, sipping more of the wine Sherlock had suggested.

"I work for the Scotland Yard."

"Sounds good."

John nodded. "I like tea with no sugar at all. I like rainy days. Dogs too."

Mary smiled. "You said you were here a few years ago."

"Yes. I was here... with a friend."

"Oh. The same one who's staying with you?"

"No, no. He..." John sipped more wine. "He died."

Mary put a hand over his. "Oh, I'm sorry. What happened?"

"Brain tumour."

"I'm sorry," Mary repeated.

John smiled weakly. "It's all right."

"My husband had cancer," Mary said. "In his brain too. He died a few months after we got married."

It was incredible how much they had in common. They liked the same food and music. They laughed and John really liked Mary's humour. She knew good joked and laughed at his.

At the end of the night John walked her to her place.

She hooked her arm with his and both walked together under the stars.

And, John couldn't tell how, he forgot Sherlock.

It was just him and Mary.

"Would you like a cup of tea?"

"Yes," John followed into her house.

Once inside they kissed.

And John felt, deep inside him, that he needed this woman forever.


End file.
